


Only The Wolves

by blood_infexions



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Use/References, Angst, Apocolyptic Themes, Barebacking, Disturbing Content, F/F, Flashbacks, Fluff, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Religious References, Smoking, Smut, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trust Issues, Zombie Virus, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 19:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12613912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blood_infexions/pseuds/blood_infexions
Summary: "The world doesn't just end. It's not that simple."The outbreak of a zombie virus devastated the world and left behind an unlucky few to live with what remains when society collapses. All you can do is try to salvage what remains of your humanity when your hands are unclean with all you've seen and done.





	1. Chapter 1

_The world doesn't just end. It's not that simple._

You don't go out in a single flash of horror or slowly degrade into nothing. But at what point can you say the world ended? Societies end. Lives end. But what is there beyond that? Unless every single living thing ceases to exist and the very last person has become a corpse, the world is still alive and kicking. Even if you wish it would just burn out already to leave you in peace.

No, the world festers. It lives to see itself become so much worse than dead. Every single thing on this cursed blue planet survives even when it should have called it quits a long time ago. Earth knows no surrender. Resilient to the last; the environment regenerates and humanity stays alive in some form or another. It's all so stubborn.

The nights are the worst. The sounds from outside crawl into his skull and gnaw at his soul. Adrenaline shreds through his body with no outlet. Sleep is all but a fantasy. The cold envelops him from every angle. He wonders if he'll ever feel warm again, not externally, but inside his chest. Each breath is ice; each beat of his heart is a reminder of what he’s become. It thumps heavily, and he can almost hear his body saying “ _alone, alone, alone_ ” on each pulse.

Bathed in the pitch black night and moans of the undead, Frank pulls the rosary out of his pocket. He begins on the cross and works his fingers over each bead. He can feel the chips and worn places in each one as he prays them in turn. His hands shake. He clenches the blanket tighter around himself and tries to fight the tremors of chill racking through him.

His voice is hollow as holy words fall from chapped, trembling lips. Begging God to help him survive just one more day. He chooses to believe someone up there is on his side, because otherwise he'll lose what’s left of his sanity. Everyone is dead. Family. Co-workers. The garden-obsessed divorcee that lived next door to him before. All of them. Someone has to be in his life. Anyone at all, really.

Fingernails scratch mercilessly against the walls. They can smell him, he knows they can.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…”

The sound grates against the outside. His body is still warm and they can sense it. His very pulse betrays him.

“The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…”

A screech comes now and then. It's a demonic sound worse than anything hell itself could produce. After this, how bad could hell possibly be?

“Holy Mary, mother of God…” he continues desperately. He can't steady himself. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

The noises resonate and all he can think is those used to be people. But they're not anymore, they're corpses. Monsters that have had their humanity hollowed out by disease.

He keeps praying until his fingers find the delicate crucifix again; having reached the end of the chain. There's the tiniest bit of solace in imagining he's heard by anyone. He takes a gulp of frigid water and it hits his empty stomach like a bullet. He's sweating and rocking himself back and forth for hours.

There's no light. No warmth. No life, except the decaying flesh of hungry creatures outside. He doesn't know what it is inside of him that wants to survive. His very nature tells him to keep breathing, to find food, to run or hide, to fight this. He can't accept this ending. Badass as it may be, he can't die this way. He’s the protagonist of a horror film and he’ll be damned if he's giving up any time soon. He's too stubborn.

He isn't sure which is the worse fate; to be torn apart by them and eaten alive, changed into one to do the same wretched thing to other survivors, or to stay alive in this constant terror.

He makes the third choice every day. He doesn't know why. He doesn't know if it's right. He just keeps running, hiding, and scavenging. He nurses the tiniest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, the cure will come. It looks less likely with each passing year but he'd hate to miss it if it did. There's still hope. There's always hope.

Eventually the scratching and inhuman groaning noises fade and stop altogether as the creatures outside surrender him as a meal. He hates knowing they'll hunt someone else next but he breaks down and sobs with the relief of this fresh silence. His ears ring and his head pounds with the aftermath of the fear.

Sleep comes deeply. It's stiff and fitful but euphoric to his stress-wracked body. The dusty mattress smells like mold and sweat. The squishy material gives beneath his aching bones. Bedsprings creak threatening as he tosses and turns though he's deaf to it in the darkness he's fallen into. He wakes every few hours, half expecting to feel his leg being chewed on.

The mornings are easier. Sunlight leaks through a crack in the boarded windows to kiss his face. The traces of warmth it offers gives him a reason to keep living. Dawn comes gently and sends the roaming bodies of the outside world to darker places. They aren't harmed by the sun but they sure don't like it. The creatures often avoid it unless they smell food.

He shakes the thought of himself as little more than food. He's just fresh meat and hot blood to appease the endless appetites. He can't let the bastards take him like that. Part of humanity has to stay fighting. There's still the possibility of a future. He won't ever be the same but he prays this part of history becomes just that: history.

Every morning he says his name to himself. He stares at his face in the dirty mirror and says “ _Frank Anthony Iero_.” He has to hold tight to the shattered remnants of his sanity in any way he can. He worries he'll forget his own identity in this isolation.

He likes to look at his tattoos. They tell him who he’s supposed to be. They show everything he once was and allow him to hold onto it. It's a life long gone but he wants to remember it. He wants to be the same guy that chose these pieces of artwork as much as he can. The sting of a tattoo needle, the smell of ink, the excitement of a fresh piece… He misses that.

He brushes his teeth and washes his hair from a room temperature jug of water. There's a few minutes a day he can forget about all of this in something so shockingly normal as the taste of toothpaste or the sound of birds singing outside. The whole world rots and the fucking birds stay the same.

He never thought he'd be glad he’d been alone before the whole thing started, but he is. Staying unattached saved his life. It was hard enough losing himself and his family; let alone close friends and a partner. Having nobody important in his life had been a curse that transformed to a kind of saving grace when the epidemic began.

The virus is vicious. So efficiently lethal that he wonders if it’s the product of some horrid design. Biological warfare from some twisted mind. Because no one knows where it came from; it just happened. There were theories but nobody really understood. Not a damn person could have imagined it would become what it did.

The story has a lackluster beginning. A man with a bite from a rabid dog checked himself into a local emergency room. He was treated, given immunizations, and sent on his way. Only hours later he returned with a fever of one hundred and twelve degrees. In a twenty six hour period, he went through each perplexing phases of the illness. Faster than he could be managed the man’s humanity melted away.

The second victim was a nurse. In his aggression, the first of the infected bit her. In the same time period she degenerated into no more than a monster. One foot in hell and one on Earth. From there the virus caught flame; spread from person to person before it could be comprehended. No one seemed to be immune. It is ridiculously uncontainable for something that isn't even airborne.

Time rushed faster than medicine could move. Scientists and doctors on TV bore a haunted look in their eyes as they tried to explain a virus they couldn't halt. They analyzed the nature of contagion, the aftereffects, and the time frame at which it progressed. All they knew of its origin was it was an extremely mutated and advanced strain of the rabies virus. A state of emergency was declared as it spread through the country, and eventually the world, before anyone could even blink.

Frank recalls the first days vividly. The footage that aired, the fear in everyone’s voices, and the chaos that followed. Many viewed it as the end. Judgement Day, some said. Some surrendered their hopes and the rest fought to survive.

All anyone could do was watch society burn as suicide and crime rates spiked. People succumbed to the disease they came to call the zombie virus. Others ransacked business and homes in search of supplies. Many evacuated to places they prayed would be safer. Residents of major cities were urged to leave immediately.

Frank had chosen to stay. He loves this city and can't imagine leaving it to die. He reasoned that it would ultimately be safer to stay put; that the rate of contagion would stay the same regardless of where you are. He still doesn't regret that choice. He knows the city inside and out. He knows where to look for supplies and what areas are most thickly infested. Clinging to the familiar was his best chance of living through this. He and these streets know each other well.

He lost a lot of his heart in the fallout. He's seek things no one should ever witness; done things no one should ever do. The uninfected remnants of mankind quickly turned on one another. He isn't exempt from it; blood stains his hands. He'll never feel clean again. Sometimes he looks at his veins and sera poison rather than blood. To his own self image, his eyes are black instead of hazel.

He's killed for supplies or self defense. He's fought and murdered for weapons, clothing, medical gear, food, and even clean water. Those things are invaluable but they don't ease the guilt. Kill or be killed, some say. He should have let that first man kill him. That guy might have deserved to live more than he does. He'll never know.

He shakes the memories from his head as he towels his wet hair and tries to stay warm. The house is dim and gray because of the boarded windows. Slivers of light seep through to paint the walls with streaks of yellow sunshine. He can see the sky through a crack; blue, welcoming. The cold chews at his face and makes his nose run.

He carves a tally mark into the bedroom wall every day. Each one stands out in a line of sheared wallpaper; every single one represents a night he’s made it through. Fractured reminders of new dawns and finished nights. All of them represent a battle won.

A tattered journal and a broken pencil rest in his jacket pocket. He writes his thoughts down from time to time. Marks the date, recalls the day of the week even if it means nothing. Today is Tuesday, December 3rd.

He eats two meals a day to keep his strength. Food is stockpiled well enough but he has to conserve if he wants to survive. Supplies could run out any day; there's plenty of survivors on the streets. He knows food in his mouth means someone else’s empty stomach but he doesn't let himself dwell on that. Every man for himself… or something.

He sighs as he opens a can of green beans with a pocketknife. He hates eating it cold but he needs to conserve fuel. He only cooks at night, when it's coldest, so he can warm himself enough to avoid getting hypothermia in his sleep.

He chokes the slimy vegetables down. It used to make him sick but now he’s just thankful to have food at all. A lot of people starved; he could have been one of them. He feels bad that he couldn't save others. He hates that he’s the only person he can keep alive. Admittedly, he's kind of doing a bang up job of that. It's an endless battle just to avoid fatal deficiencies and keep on enough weight for his clothes to fit.

Against his better judgement, he gets the burner out so he can have coffee. He only needs a little fuel for that, after all. He can't think about anything but the taste of black coffee; the memory of a thick smell fills his head.

It's laborious to make but so, so worth it. He fashioned the tiny stove from two empty soda cans with an X-Acto knife. It took several tries to engineer but it burns rather efficiently. The object a lot of punch for something that fits in his palm. Funny thing, antifreeze makes clean-burning fuel and not many people are worried about stealing it in a survival situation like this. You learn some really obscure methods to stay alive after a while.

He goes through the motions; boiling water, shaking coffee grounds into a filter, and percolating the dark substance into an aluminum cup. The aftertaste is heavy and metallic in his throat. It warms his hands and he lets out a soft sigh of relief.

He curses the need for freedom of movement because it means he can't layer his clothes. God, he’d give anything for a better circulatory system right now. He shivers against the biting temperature and tries to focus on the heat of his coffee. It burns his tongue but he doesn't mind it. His mind is louder than the voices of the whole world combined.

Is it better to hold to the past or pretend this is all you've ever had? Each has drawbacks. Hold to times before and you're tormented by all of the things you lost. He thinks of his parents, his grandfather… A whole family and he's the only one still breathing. Pretend those times didn't exist and you lose all that’s left of who you are. In this life every question he has only elicits another.

The house is a lifeline; he's lucky to have it. Not everyone has a place this safe to sleep. Only so many get a hideout; some have no choice but to roam and pray they aren't killed. It's large and well-structured. He imagines it used to be really nice before the family living here left it to fall apart.

There’s evidence of survivors having been here before him; graffiti on the walls and splatters of dried blood on the carpet. Everything is encased in a layer of dust now though, except where he stirs things around often. It's heavy and still. The house is of a modern design and well furnished. All of the electronics--even the light bulbs--have been stolen. A musty floral sofa, dining table and chairs, two recliners, and four beds remain. The sheets and pillows have been taken from each one of them. There's three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, and an office. These people had some serious money to have lived in a house like this.

He aches to see that this house belonged to a family with children. One of the bedrooms has blue wallpaper with rockets and stars on it. It has a bunk bed and two miniature desks too. A small shoe rests forgotten under the bed. It hurts him to look at it.

He sleeps in the bedroom in the back of the house. It has scratched wooden flooring and a ragged queen sized mattress lying without a frame. It must have belonged to the parents before. It's been stripped of its original personality since the outbreak though. The open floor plan of the entire establishment makes it feel that much emptier.

The kitchen has gray tile floor with cracks in it. The drawers are all empty. The refrigerator sits in hollow silence. He’s stocked the cabinets with his findings of canned and boxed goods as well as bottles of river water that he's filtered.

Weapons are the hardest thing to get ahold of. He's picked them from corpses, mostly. Frank can’t ever stand to steal from another survivor. He wasn't desperate enough to condemn another human if they posed no immediate threat to him. No matter what the mirror tells him, he isn't a monster. Not yet anyway.

A black forty-five pistol stays strapped to his hip; even while he sleeps. It's his only gun. He has a hunting knife tucked into his boot, a rusted machete in his backpack, and a large pocketknife.

The first thing he did when he came here was board the windows. That's probably why the survivors here before didn't last; they left the windows exposed. Several had been broken and had telltale blood on the sills. Stupid.

When he’s here he jams the front and back doors shut with chairs in case the creatures outside clumsily discover the basic function of a doorknob. They may be mentally challenged but they are still lethal. It only takes one bite to make history of you. That's if you escape being eaten alive.

Days pass by and leave him numb as winter drags on. He lives in a haze; wandering through the house, reading books he's taken from a library, caring for himself and his weapons; writing in his notebook and on the walls, and trying to survive the cursed nights.

Sometimes he just sits and feels time pass him by. He puts his back to the wall, rests his face in his knees, and just feels the pieces of his soul leave him; little by little. He recalls the faces of the people he's killed. Their eyes most of all. Everyone’s eyes look different in this world. Some are empty like his; others are filled to the brim with pain, fear, hunger, or just anger. It drives you insane with time.

A lot of tough choices had to be made when the outbreak came; what to hold onto and what to leave behind. His apartment had been invaded early on. He'd barely escaped with his life let alone much else. Just the clothes he was wearing that day, and the contents of a backpack he'd put together at the start of it all. It wasn't much.

In his dreams he escapes--if he dreams. Most nights are a void in his head. But when he dreams, he sees his mom. She always has wings like an angel and touches his face with silken hands. Sometimes he’s in a band again; playing grungy shows in a basement or a bar with high school friends. He misses guitar. His left hand fingers still have all of the callouses from the press of strings against flesh.

He had dogs once, too. Three of them; hearts full of love. He still longed for that love; messy with slobber and shedding fur. It wasn't as bad as the guilt of killing a person but he did feel bad about them. They'd been infected… He had no choice.

The cold works its way into his lungs eventually. He should have thought of this before it happened. Recon trips are brutal and unsure. He should have grabbed cold medicine the last time he went but it hadn't been a pressing need in his mind. His chest aches from coughing and his senses are dull.

This isn't a world where you can afford to be ill but it's not like he has any control over that. Even a common cold or flu can be lethal under the wrong circumstances. He laughs to himself that if there were ever wrong circumstances, these are it. His eyes are bloodshot and faded when he sees them in the cracked mirror on the closet door. It's not a good sign.

He’ll need water soon anyway. He can try to find medicine of some kind or another when he goes to the river. Right now he only has a first aid kit with tools for suturing and treating infections or burns. His throat stings and his lymph nodes are swollen to the touch. Fucking hell, his immune system is letting him down again.

He thinks of better days and tells himself they won't hurt right now. He can't stand any more pain. He closes his eyes, presses his body heavily against the mattress, and drifts to when he was younger. Everything he’d suffered could never have prepared him for this. No one could have been ready. He still isn't; though it's not like he really has a choice. Live or die. That's the choice you're given. Fight for the life you have or flee to the great beyond.

His head takes him back to the halcyon days of an autumn five years ago. Twenty-one was one of the best years of his life. Nothing really mattered; it was all cool weather and changing leaves. He'd spent the year drinking and having cheap sex with guys and girls. Hell, once at the same time. It was fabulous. Meaningless and empty, but just fucking fun to be that young and careless. He'd felt invincible, that one year.

The next year had brought depression and a strange sense of “what now?”. The phenomenon of the party ending to leave you without a purpose. All of the bliss melts away into doubt and emptiness.

He'd grabbed hold of purpose in music. The solidarity of strings beneath his fingers, people in the audience with bright eyes, the ringing in his ears that remained afterward, knowing you were doing something that meant something. That was his purpose before all of this happened. It wasn't much but an underground band with a local following of some broken punk kids. But to him, it was everything.

Not a day goes by that he doesn't think of it. It’s like a large part of himself was pulled from his chest with a pair of pliers. He doesn't know what remains in its place. Maybe it's that small spark of faith he’s too stubborn to let go of.

He still writes songs and poems in his notebook. They're dark and lightless but he can feel what’s left of his own soul in them. He’d give anything to be numb; not to feel anymore. His own humanity is the noose around his throat. He’s tried before to burn it, drown it, or cut it away but his fractured heart beats relentlessly in his chest. Blood flows through his veins and feeds his brain, his organs function as best they know how, and his nerves still feel every sensation.

The hardest part of society’s downfall was being forced to quit cigarettes. The way his body burned for nicotine for weeks almost ate him alive. Now he just misses the feeling and not the substance. The heat of bittersweet smoke filling his lungs and bleeding out through his lips, the smell… That was comfort, in a way, for him.

He remembers days of his mother telling him they'd chew through his lungs in no time--as she lit up a cigarette.

He chews on a cracked lip as he plans the next recon trip. His head is bleary; it’s going to be a rough run. The heaviness behind his eyes is making it impossible to focus. Despite the caffeine in his veins all he can think of is sleep. He wants to lie down and drift away into nothing; just sleep for years.

He slips in the abyss of a fitful slumber with his back to the wall. He can feel his pulse in the back of his hea. He falls dead to it the deeper he goes.

Zombies? Yes. Apocalypse? He won't accept that.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

There's a sour taste in her mouth when she wakes. It seeps down through her nose to stain her tongue. It's the smell that bothers her most; the constant stench of death and rot that dominates the atmosphere. The air is thick with the smell of degenerating flesh and body odor. Sometimes there's the rusty scent of blood. She curses her sensitive nose.

Jamia’s legs ache from the way she wedged herself into the abandoned car’s floorboard last night. The muscles throb and spasm as she sits up. Some nights she can sleep peacefully, though not on the ones where the infected find her. Then all she can do is clutch her knife tight, press herself down where they can't see or smell her as well, and pray they don't break the glass.

She groans as she stretches. Her empty stomach rumbles as she dusts herself off. She trails a hand through her long hair. It's knotted and mangled from the lack of care it's received. She takes in her surroundings to see that it's relatively safe. When she sees nothing, she shifts herself and her knapsack into the front seat.

Her eyes are filled with fear even to her own perception. She shakes her head and lets it course through her in full so the adrenaline can deplete itself. Dirt stains her cheek and collarbones. She wipes some of it away with her jacket sleeve. It doesn't do much.

To no avail she tries to detangle her hair with her fingers. It only catches and makes the knots worse. She lets out a sigh and drops her head back against the seat. A cloud of dust flurries to make her cough. She sifts through the car for something she can eat or use.

She thought of medicine first when she fought and searched for supplies. Weapons weren't her strongest point. Jamia could pack a punch with her fists and was fast on her feet but tools like that made her uneasy. She hadn't gathered enough food to last but she was at least able to care for wounds and ailments.

A rusted razor blade in the cupholder makes her pause. She picks it up and twirls it end to end for a moment. The edges are solid between her thumb and forefinger. Determination stills her as she catches her own eyes in the mirror. The blade may be worn but it is still sharp.

Ribbons of tangled black hair fall from her head as she slices roughly through it with the razor’s edge. It doesn't have to be pretty; she just needs it gone. It rests in a hacked-up halo around her face and over her jaw. It ends just beneath her earlobes at the sides of her neck. Jamia decides she likes it. It's edgy, she supposes. Punk rock, she laughs to herself. As if that kind of thing matters anymore.

She purses her lips as she brushes the sheared hair from her legs and shoulders. She's so hungry that the pangs of distress in her stomach are all she can think of. Her insides eat away at her mind. She clenches her teeth and fights to push down the bitterness creeping up her throat.

Life is a constant run. Always running for cover; for food; for survival. She’s growing unsettlingly thin. Her ribs jut out at her sides more each day. As if that isn't bad enough she's pale and filthy. She has basic things; deodorant, medical supplies, a hunting knife, the clothes on her body, a toothbrush, bottles of water, a bandanna treated with cinnamon water to guard against the smell of the open air, and a craftily bent paper clip to pick locks with.

She doesn't really know how she's still alive if she’s honest. She's a scavenger at best. She lives on foot, running where the wind blows her. Cars have been the safest bet for her so far. She picks the locks with her knife and paper clip and sleeps in them--a different one each night. If she lingers too long her scent becomes too prominent and she runs the risk of being swarmed. It's a mistake she won't make twice.

Her brother would have done better. Evan was smarter. Stronger. If she had a choice, she would have died instead. He’d partner with other survivors and put up an admirable fight. He was a wolf and she's just a dog. She hunts for the scraps of what others leave behind and no better. Not a damn place to lay her head, she's running her life away. Not that it's much of a life anyway.

She shakes his memory from her head before it has the chance to eat her alive. Seeing that _thing_ he'd become… She should have been brave enough to kill him while he was still himself. She won't be that weak again. Love of any kind makes fools of people, so she runs alone.

To the initial naked eye the city is intact albeit abandoned. Skyscrapers continue to loom proudly; streets are lined with cars; all rests heavy and at peace. A second glance yields terror. Buildings and houses rest fractured by horrendous creatures and starving raiders. Blood stains the walls and streets. All is covered in dirt and rust; a world corroded and forgotten along with every remaining resident.

The sun rises and sets each day. The moon hasn't yet abandoned the world it belongs to. The stars look down on humanity in what she imagines is pity. The poor humans; too fucking dumb to die before they lost their hearts. Jamia doesn't dare hold to hope or anything of the kind but she stays alive anyway. She's scared to find what comes after this life. Horrible as it may be, she sticks to what she knows. It's worth something as long as she can see and touch it.

She peers as far as she can see in all directions for a stirring of a person--or of what used to be one. She crawls from the car with her knapsack slung securely over her shoulder. The pavement is sure and solid beneath her feet. It doesn't shift the way everything else in life has.

The wind kisses her exposed neck in cold comfort. She ties the scented bandanna around her face to mask the ghastly smell, steels herself against the wind chill, and sets off walking. Her bag softly drums against her back in rhythm with her footsteps.

She explores the city cautiously in her hunt for food. She peeks around corners, knocks against walls to listen for occupants of a room, keeps her breath steady and her eyes wide, and grabs what she sees. Which thus far, is nothing. This part of the city has been raided clean already.

Jamia wanders further through the streets like a hungry dog. She roams toward the eastern end of the city, eyes stinging from the wind. Her gaze becomes fixed on a gas station with barred windows. The roof is caving in at the edges. It was probably falling apart even before the outbreak.

The metal door handle is frigid in her hands as she tests it to see if it's locked. It opens easily; slack in her hands. She flinches at the bell that rings against the frame. The shock resonates throughout her nervous system. It echoes through the room but alerts no prior presence. It's been visited recently but not laid bare; much to her relief.

She creeps around the station on light feet gathering anything and everything of benefit. She scavenges granola bars, snack cakes, a few bottles of juice, and beef sticks. She's careful not to collect too much weight. She can't afford to take more than she can carry. It's also an act of compassion to leave supplies for the next warm body to wander in here.

The euphoria she's feeling melts into untainted adrenaline as the unmistakable muted click of a gun’s safety being turned off rings in her ears. _Fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid_. She let her hunger get the best of her and didn't consider that someone might be here, waiting quietly. She'd checked for noise but not everyone makes noise. No, no, this isn't it. She’s not dying here over this.

Her jaw locks and her hands stiffen into fists. A tremor seizes her every limb. All she has is a knife. She did her best these years to stay out of this exact situation. A knife to a gunfight; doesn't that irony sting? She steadied herself and waits for the bullet but it doesn't come. She lets out the trembling breath she’s held for entirely too long.

Instead of a shot there's a voice; low and feminine, smooth and cool.

“Give me one reason I shouldn't blow your brains out,” the woman threatens.

Jamia doesn't move, doesn't speak. Her legs must be trying to melt because they shake beneath her own weight. The urge to fall to her knees is overwhelming but she doesn't dare.

“Turn around,” the voice says again. “Take your mask off and let me see your face.”

Reluctantly she complies and meets the eyes of her unanticipated threat.

The woman stands tall a few feet away, fingers wrapped around the trigger of a semi-automatic gun. She braces the large weapon casually against her shoulder like it's rested there her whole life. She looks to be in her late twenties--maybe a few years older than herself. Her eyes are dark; her face has hardened. The faintest of smile lines ghost her mouth as she frowns. Dark brown hair falls loosely into her face from a slack braid.

“Well aren't you cute,” she says flatly. “I’ve been here a few days and I'll be damned if you can just come in here and steal me blind.”

Jamia starts to stammer that she's sorry but she stops. She isn't sorry, she's starving. She wants to survive every damn bit as much as the woman before her.

She stares widely into her eyes, refusing to break her gaze even though it's eating her from the inside out.

The trace of a repressed wince crosses the woman’s face. Jamia glances to a bloodied piece of cloth wrapped securely around her thigh. She studies her to be positive it isn't a bite. No way, she decides. The woman is calm and composed with a human complexion. It's just an injury.

“You're hurt,” she says timidly.

“What’s it to you?” the woman snaps.

“I--I can help you. I have… I have medicine. And a suture kit. Think about it. I can help you, why should you kill me?”

“Because you could be lying,” she says.

“I just need food,” she whispers. “I'm Jamia. We can help each other. Just…”

Fuck it, she really doesn't have anything left to lose. Either she earns a small bit of trust or this woman kills her here and now. Jamia puts her hands up to show no malicious intent and shifts her bag onto the floor in front of her feet.

“Just see for yourself,” Jamia says. “Medical stuff in the front pocket.”

The woman’s gun never directs away from Jamia as she unzips the front of the back. She takes in the sight of the antiseptic, suturing kit, gauze, tape, and various medications. She zips it back and stands to meet her eyes again.

“I could just take all of this from you, you know that? Or kill you for it,” she says in a low tone. “A lot of people would just call you dead weight.”

“I'm not dead weight,” Jamia says, her cheeks running hot.

“I can tell,” the woman hums, smirking now. She sighs. “Alright look… You could be useful. And I've got the upper hand, so I know you aren't exactly a threat. You've got, what, a knife in your pocket? Yeah, I'm real scared. I'll make you a deal, okay?”

Jamia nods fiercely.

“We work together--I’ve got food and you have medicine. But if you try anything funny I won't hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes. That or I let you walk away from here with nothing. You tell me what happens here.”

With that, the woman kicks the bag back to her. She hesitates to pick it up but does, fearfully holding eye contact.

Jamia ponders it. She can't really trust this woman… But she aches all over for food. As if that weren't motivation enough, the longer she looks at the woman’s poorly patched up leg the more she's inclined to stay. Besides, this encounter has shown her just how pathetically unprotected she is.

She take a breath and fights for words as the dark haired woman studies her face for the indication of an answer.

“We have better chances if we work together,” Jamia says shakily.

The woman smiles and lowers her gun to her side, nodding. She extends a hand stiffly. Agreeing to whatever strange sort of truce they've come to, Jamia shakes it.

“Damn,” the woman notes with smirking eyes. “You've got strong hands.”

Jamia shrugs nervously, still unsure of the company she now evidently keeps.

Sticky half-dried blood wets the black denim of the taller woman’s pants and oozes a deep red into the cloth tied around the wound. The effort has clearly been to seal off some of the circulation to the wound--which is a good first line of action but a bad choice in the long term.

“You can keep the food loaded in your bag,” says the woman. “I recommend you stay stocked up in case we’re found here. The way I'm looking at it, you and I don't have much choice but to trust each other a bit.”

“Okay,” Jamia says. She steadies herself. “That leg needs attention.”

The woman frowns. “We’ll get to it. Follow me… I'll show you the back room.”

Jamia nods and clings behind the other woman’s heels as she leads. The two dodge around plastic crates, cardboard boxes, and various items littered across the floor. The woman curls her hand around the handle to a door and shoves it open with her shoulder. It has resistance from rusted hinges so opening it requires force.

She gestures widely at the room. It's small and dim, the floor is solid gray cement, and a nest of tattered blankets and mildewed pillows rest in the back corner. It's colder in there from the lack of natural lighting. A large half-melted candle rests alone next to the makeshift bed.

“So this is where it's safest to sleep,” the woman says.

“I like it,” responds Jamia softly.

“It's decent enough. There's no windows and the door is sticky so those things would have a harder time finding their way in here than out there,” she says tersely.

“Cool.” Jamia nods.  
  
It feels shockingly safer than the sleeping arrangements she's had up to this point.

“So, you gonna hand over that suture kit?” the woman says.

“Oh,” Jamia says, slipping her bag off her shoulder. “I actually um… You should let me have a look at it.”

She raises a dark eyebrow. Her skepticism is written all over her face.

“It's not a lot but I used to volunteer at animal shelters. Learned a few things about medicine while I was there,” Jamia explains.

“Fine,” the woman sighs with no attempt to mask her frustration at the entire scenario.

She winces sharply as she sits down with her back to the wall, injured leg extended for Jamia to examine. She doesn't neglect the secure hold on her gun.

Jamia kneels in front of her, setting her bag down softly. The woman’s eyes stay locked on her as she reaches for the bloodied cloth. More blood oozes as she releases the pressure of the knotted fabric. It's sticky and leaves traces of red on her palms.

“You still haven't told me your name,” she says pointedly.

The woman lets out a soft breath and lets another wall come down, saying, “It’s Lynz.”

“Lynz.” She smiles. “I like it.”

“Yeah, yeah, calm down cupcake. You're Jamia, right?”

“That’s me. Now that we know each other, I’m gonna need you to take off your pants.”

“Well, don’t you move quickly?” Lynz teases.

She strips the denim from her own legs and hisses at both the pain and cold. Her legs are pale and smooth; her thighs are thickly laden with muscle.

Jamia wets the same cloth with a bottle of water and begins to gingerly wipe away the blood so she can better see the wound. Lynz clenches her teeth as the frigid water stings the torn flesh.

“Shit,” Jamia says.

“Tell me about it,” says Lynz. “It’s fucking stupid too, I slipped and landed on my own knife a couple days ago. All the things that can hurt you out here and I do this to myself.”

Jamia hums in reply as she cleans away the last of the blood. More oozes through the slashed skin but now she can see the extent of the damage. It is a nasty injury; spanning nearly four inches, and it's deep too. It's not in an ideal spot; the way it’s against the soft flesh of Lynz’s inner thigh. Worse yet is the way it's reddened and hot to the touch, warning of the early stages of infection.

“You do seem pretty damn capable--I mean, you're doing better than I have. But cutting off the blood flow, not the greatest idea. Much longer like this and you’d be facing losing the leg. Muscles would have started dying in a couple more days if you left it like this.”

“Fun,” Lynz scoffs. “Guess I had something like this coming.”

“Those zombies smell blood too. I don't know how you haven't been swarmed already.”

“Jesus, I've been swarmed. Twice. Shot up like twenty or more of those fuckers and burned the bodies outside. Just figured it was part of the usual fight.”

Jamia steadies her hands as she opens the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“You're really not gonna like this…,” she warns, showing apologetic eyes. “But I've got to disinfect this before it has the chance to fester.”

“Life gets better all the time.”

“Please try not to scream,” says Jamia.

Lynz’s head rolls back against the wall and every muscle spasms with pain as Jamia pours a small stream of the alcohol over the open wound.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” Lynz shouts, prompting Jamia to shush her.

Before she had the chance to register the suture needle sinking into her skin, Jamia clenches her leg tight to restrain her and begins the stitches.

Lynz hisses further with pain as the needles goes through repeatedly and the thread forces the skin closed.

“Don't watch,” Jamia orders. “It'll only hurt more. It won't be much more.”

She hurries to stitch the wound, knowing how much it must hurt. Short and intense pain is better than the drawn out kind--in her experience. She works her hands delicately as she sews the flesh together.

Lynz sighs with relief when Jamia finally knots the last stitch and severs the suturing thread from its roll.

“I have never in my life been so glad to have something over. _Shit_ that hurt,” she groans.

“Sorry,” Jamia winces. “You'll have to be careful about how you move around. Stay mindful of it. If you're not too rough with them those stitches should hold.”

“Thank you,” Lynz says softly.

“No need. Just um… Don't kill me,” Jamia laughs.

“Hmm. Guess you really aren't dead weight,” Lynz notes.

“Told you,” she says, straightening her shoulders proudly.

Lynz shifts her weight to slip the bloodied, ripped jeans back on. Her stitches and reddened skin show through the sliced fabric.

“Jesus Christ, you do need to eat,” she tells Jamia as she takes note of her skeletonized frame.

“Urgh, no shit,” Jamia replies.

She tucks the alcohol and suture kit back into her bag and digs out granola bars, a beef stick, and a bottle of apple juice. Her hands shake with excitement as she rips the first package open. It’s blissful; the first bite of chewy peanut butter flavored granola fills her mouth and hits her stomach heavily. Her insides gurgle in response as she tries to fight the urge to shove as much as she can between her lips to fill her aching belly. She forces herself to chew enough and eat slow so she doesn't just make herself sick.

“Yeah, we’re gonna need to put some weight on you if you’re gonna survive the rest of the winter. Shit,” says Lynz.

Jamia can feel her eyes studying her in the darkened room as she crouches possessively around her backpack and works the salty meat in her teeth.

“Yeah,” she says, “Being a scavenger was easier in the beginning but it doesn’t pay off so much anymore. Pretty sure fighters are mostly the ones left alive now.”

“Something like that I guess,” Lynz says.

“My brother used to say there were wolves and dogs left in the end of things,” Jamia says. “People who weren't afraid to fight and the ones who watched the others and picked over what was left. And um… He was the wolf of the two of us.”

“He was right though,” sighs Lynz. “But you know… I think and wolves and dogs could learn a thing from each other.” She smirks.

“Maybe so,” Jamia sighs.

Time passes in loaded, distrustful silence. The growing darkness enveloping the room prompts Lynz to light the candle in the corner. In a graceful motion she sits back down on the floor, spine against the wall. The soft flicker of burning orange light casting thick shadows on the walls settles Jamia’s nerves.

“I don’t suppose either of us will be sleeping tonight,” she says softly.

“Not me anyway,” Lynz says. “You seem like a decent person, and I appreciate the leg, but I’d be stupid to give you the chance to pull anything.”

Jamia nods. “Considering you’ve already threatened to put a bullet in my head more than once, what reason do I have to trust that you won’t kill me in my sleep?”

“Touché.”

They stare at one another; candlelight glimmering in Lynz’s brown eyes.

Jamia grins with a probably-not-so-great idea.

“What?” Lynz laughs at her coy expression.

“Spit shake?” Jamia asks.

“Uh… what?”

“Spit shake. It’s when you--”

“Yeah,” Lynz says, “I know what a spit shake is, just… what does it have to do with anything?”

“When me and my brother made compromises we’d do a spit shake to honor it,” she explains. “So let’s shake on it. I won’t pull anything funny and you don’t kill me tonight.”

Lynz gives a scoff followed by a snicker. “Fine. I’ll do the damn spit shake. Nobody plays unfairly, right? That’s the agreement.”

“Nobody fights unfairly,” says Jamia, spitting into her palm.

Lynz repeats the motion and the two shake saliva-slicked hands.

“That’s disgusting.” Lynz’s nose scrunches as she wipes her hand off on her jeans.

Jamia does the same, laughing.

“You can sleep on in the corner there,” Lynz says gently, gesturing to the rumpled mess of stained pillows and blankets. “I’m still gonna stay up awhile. Might just fall asleep sitting here, I dunno.”

“Oh,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Ah, save it, sugar. I’ve given up my bed for worse before.”

She nods and lets herself fall against the soft nest. A small cloud of dust rises from the pillow her head lands on. All at once her body fills with the desire to sleep. It clouds her head as the cold, damp air soaks her bones. The softness beneath her hips is incredible after having spent so many nights crammed in the backseat or even floorboard of a car.

Lynz watches her as she drifts off. She becomes more and more unaware of the world beyond her own head. The light of the candle fades into pitch black night and the icy fingers of winter air clamp down on her flesh. Lynz’s eyes fade from her vision as she slips into a troubled slumber.

Hours pass in shivering sleep. She used to love winter for all it was but now the nights are a battle simply not to freeze to death. She can almost hear her own bones rattling against one another in the freezing night. She doesn't have enough weight on her body to keep her warm.

“Fuck this,” she hears Lynz say from far away in the waking world.

It startles her awake as she feels warm hands gripping her ribs. It scares her at first, thinking she's being attacked. Have _they_ come for her? Has Lynz broken her oath? Is this the time to fight?

Her hands fly up and she twists her body around for face her assailant, whose fingers envelop her wrist.

“Shhhh,” Lynz says urgently. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Jamia. I’m not gonna hurt you. Relax.”

Jamia gasps softly and stammers. “What are you--”

“Hush,” Lynz hums. “I just can’t stand to watch you fucking freeze. I can hear your teeth rattling.”

“S-sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” Lynz says confidently. “Just breathe. Lay back down; I’ll keep you warm.”

The taller woman’s body is sure against her own as she coaxes her to lie on her side. Her form rests against her back and wraps around her own. It’s steady and shockingly warm. She feels fear at the gesture at first but ultimately finds comfort in Lynz’s heat. She can feel her breath in her hair. It’s the first human contact Jamia’s had in months. She settles herself against the other woman and forces herself to trust her, just enough to make it through the night. The warmth of her touch is a kindness; oddly intimate and easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really testing my limits on this fic... I want to try to get to 90-100K words so I'm trying to hover around 4K per chapter. This is easily gonna be the most intense I've ever written. In advance, please forgive me. Next chapter should be coming in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

The clouds of his breath in the frigid morning air take his mind back to a life he’s all but forgotten. The fog that leaves his mouth reminds him of cigarette smoke and subsequently of peace long lost. The faded memory of a nicotine buzz and a coffee-stained mouth leaves him feeling hollowed out. It’s such a simple thing to miss, though nothing is simple anymore.

Gerard hasn't slept through a full night in months. Mikey worries about the darkened circles beneath his brother’s eyes and the ghostly pallor his face has taken on. Truth be told, it scares him too. His mind fills itself with unsightly terrors the moment the sun leaves the sky; flashbacks and voices and fears. He finds himself a prisoner to the deafening silence. Sleep brings no comfort because it simply transfers him from a waking nightmare to one conjured in his subconscious.

The little girl rests behind his eyelids. He sees her every time he closes them. He hears her screams each quiet moment he’s faced with. Over and over again, he sees those god-awful zombified remnants of human beings as they screeched and tore the child apart in front of his eyes. Every time, he can only think I could have saved her. I should have. Sometimes he swears he can smell her blood on his own hands. If you have the power to save someone and do nothing, isn't that the same thing as killing them?

Last night was typical. He rocked himself back and forth in hushed agony. He chewed his nails and pressed his face into his knees for sanctuary. He likes the place they're sleeping for the present; it's quieter than most. Quiet is a curse of its own but anyone would prefer it to the noises of the streets. Those sounds fill his head up and shake him to his very soul. They cling to the fringes of his mind as if it were a darkness growing in him.

The river flows in a soft cadence beneath them. He stares down into the dark water for hours on end, some days. He watches as his own reflection is obscured by ripples of the swirling stream. Snow falls in a delicate flurry from above and collects in a thick frosted quilt all around the city. The diffused sunlight refracts off the water, silvery and untouched. It's a peaceful spot beneath the bridge, sheltered under the concrete in a little cavernous area hollowed out by gradual erosion. They used to come here as children, when zombies were simply the stuff of fiction.

Mikey nudges his shoulder softly. Gerard takes a breath, holds it in, and leans on his brother.

“More nightmares last night?” the younger man asks softly.

“Yeah,” Gerard whispers, gazing into the river’s abyss. “They don't go away.”

“I know, Gee,” he says sympathetically, pushing harder against him.

His baby brother, steady and sure. Mikey doesn't have nightmares. If he does, he isn't letting on. He's found a way to push his emotions away. It's better because it's kept him from becoming the haunted mess Gerard has seen himself metamorphosize into.

His brother is thinner than a rail; being unfortunate enough to have the faster metabolism of the two. Gerard often tries to feed him more, insisting he’ll need it most because he's naturally skinnier, but he won't have it. He feels guilty seeing he still has fat collected at his waist and thighs. It keeps him warm but he knows Mikey has to be freezing, flesh and bones as he is.

The younger brother keeps his composure better than anyone Gerard has ever seen. He always did but it shows more these days. The contagion changed most people in some fundamental way but he's pretty sure it only made his brother stronger. He was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve to begin with. Now he seems to keep it concealed deep inside of himself, guarded as a secret.

Stone-faced, Mikey sits cleaning a knife with the sleeve of his shirt, precise motions. Faded droplets of dried blood stain the fabric. His focused expression brings the fifth (or was it sixth?) day of the outbreak into Gerard’s mind.

The younger brother saw it coming before most did. Gerard doesn't know how he pieced it together but he knows they'd be long dead now if he hadn't. He closes his eyes and revisits that day whether he wants to or not.

“ _This is possibly the most volatile virus we’ve seen yet,” the scientist says. “It attacks almost every facet of the body, even resulting in an eventual decay of flesh, both internal and external, Infection results from direct fluid contact to the bloodstream. Once contracted the virus attacks the central nervous system first, spreads through the major organs, and finally takes root in the brain. The complete process occurs in twenty four to twenty eight hours.”_

_His eyes are distant and horror-drenched; evidence of a hope long gone. The news anchor, for what must be the first time ever, says nothing. The man sits in a dark brown chair and leans back into it like he’s trying to ground himself._

_He continues, “In the first hour, pain and discoloration of the entry point occurs.”_

_The clearly terrified woman sitting barely-composed in the newsroom then asks, “When you say ‘entry point’, what have you seen is the most common source of contraction?”_

_“Bites,” he sighs defeatedly. “Once the virus has extended to the brain, extreme aggression occurs. The host becomes highly agitated, undergoes a complete loss of personality, and develops a seemingly…” he pauses for a shuddering breath. “A seemingly uncontrollable hunger.”_

_“Fuck,” Mikey hisses. “What they're describing…”_

_“Don’t say it. Don't fucking say it,” Gerard pleads, edging closer to the TV._

_The man keeps speaking. “Within two hours of contraction, the host will experience an extreme fever, rigors, chills, vomiting, and acute pain in the extremities. As time progresses, a full body numbness occurs. The subject experiences severe dementia, loss of coordination, and an inability to speak. The heart rate slows steeply, the body temperature cools, and the subject falls into a temporary coma-like state.” He pauses again, wrings his hands together, and says, “Within two to three hours, they wake up. When they do, all traces of typical behavior is gone. Subjects become…” He shakes his head, unable to say it. He waves his hand weakly for the camera to stop._

_“This is Fox News reporting,” the news anchor says grimly, “on what the public has come to refer to as the “zombie virus” currently spreading.”_

_“No,” Gerard sobs. “This isn't happening.”_

_“Just give it a second,” Mikey says calmly._

_When the program returns, another scientist is seated with the first, a woman this time._

_“What measures are being taken to control or even cure the contagion America is faced with?” the anchor asks._

_“Quarantine measures have been put into place,” the woman says coolly. She seems too confident. Given the nature of the virus at hand, it has been very… difficult. Subjects are volatile and hard to control. I assure you, we have our best people at work on this. We are in contact with doctors and virologists from multiple countries as well. The virus has not escaped ground zero and we have no intent of letting it.”_

_“And a cure?” the anchor prompts hopefully._

_“We are all doing our very best, I assure you. I urge all to stay calm, stay informed, and let us do our jobs.”_

_“I'm sure you are,” Mikey scoffs._

_He stands stiffly and strides away from the TV._

_“What are you doing?” Gerard asks, his voice broken._

_Mikey doesn't reply but instead begins digging out multitudes of empty jars and bottles from every cabinet of the kitchen. Moving determinedly, he fills each one with tap water from the sink._

_“Mikey, what the hell are you doing?” Gerard demands, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder._

_Mikey turns with hard eyes and says, “They’re not gonna tell us everything. They have no idea what they're facing here. They promise it'll stay contained, they promise they'll fix it, they won't.”_

_“You can't know that, Mikey. They could still--”_

_“No,” he says. “This is it. The part we’ve seen in movies and comic books our whole lives.”_

_“Life isn't a movie,” Gerard argues._

_“No it isn't,” Mikey says. “Sometimes it's worse. Tell me you feel it too.”_

_Gerard tips his head back, shivering with fear. He nods. He knows; a pang in the center of his gut, this is going to get out of hand._

_“I need you to trust me,” Mikey says, putting his hand on his older brother’s arm. “I’ve got a really, really strong feeling that we want to be ready for something worse than what they're telling us is gonna happen.”_

_Gerard nods softly. “Mikey, if you're right about this, it's not just an outbreak, it's…”_

_The younger brother doesn’t speak. He only nods quietly and turns away to return to his endeavors of gathering water._

_Gerard pants, unable to believe any of it is happening. The shock has a hold on his throat. He keeps waiting for the nightmare to end, waiting to wake up. It feels like the opening scene to a low-budget horror movie._

_“What are you thinking?” he asks._

_Mikey says, “I'm thinking that if this turns into what I think it might, we need to be ready.”_

_Gerard nods again. Mikey’s right. This will likely still be fixed but they need to be prepared if it isn’t._

_“Stay here. Keep filling up containers with as much water as you can,” Mikey instructs. “I’ve got to go.”_

_“Go? Go where?”_

_“For supplies,” he says matter-of-factly. He pulls Gerard into a tight hug, pockets his keys, and leaves._

_Gerard does as he's told and collects water into every available container in his apartment. He worries himself sick as the hours pass without a word from Mikey. He puts the news on again only to find everyone is saying the same things over and over again without letup._

_His phone vibrates in his pocket late that night._

_“Sry, shit isn't easy to get hold of,” the text from Mikey says. A second one reads. “Stay home. I'll b there 9AM tmro.”_

_Gerard nods and types back. “K, b careful.”_

_It’s a sleepless night as Gerard paces his apartment. He runs scenarios in his mind, asking himself what in the hell is happening. He still isn't sure any of it is real at all._

_Mikey shows up first thing the next morning with his girlfriend Kristin next to him. He carries a large backpack on each shoulder. She has one too. She looks bewildered but trusting._

_“Okay,” Mikey sighs as they drop the three bags on the table._

_He unzips each one and pulls out the contents to show Gerard what he’s collected._

_“Everything you ever dreamed of in case of zombie apocalypse,” he says plainly._

_“Holy shit,” Gerard breathes. Each backpack is loaded heavily with a pistol, cases of bullets and gunpowder, a large tactical knife, a filter for contaminated water, a sleeping bag, dry goods, first aid kits, and medical supplies._

_“Where did you get the guns?” Gerard asks._

_Mikey snorts. “It’s America for Christ’s sake, there's hardly anything easier to get your hands on.”_

_Gerard nods. It feels both good and out of turn to laugh. Through all of this, Mikey is still making jokes._

_Kristin has stayed silent up to this point. Like Gerard, she must not have a lot worth saying at the moment. That or she's just frozen in fear. The three of them stand, preparing for what somehow feels like the end of the world._

Mikey jerks him back into the present. “Gerard?” he says, voice filled with worry.

“I’m fine, I'm fine, Mikey,” he defends, perhaps too quickly.

“Mm, sure. I’ve just been talking to you for the last fifteen minutes while you've been staring off into space.”

He shakes the flashback from his head. “Just hard not to remember things,” he says.

“Yeah,” Mikey whispers. “Wish I could stop seeing it too.”

Gerard runs his hands through his grease-slicked hair and takes a sharp breath.

Mikey reaches behind them, digs through his backpack, and produces a bag of beef jerky and a single cereal bar.

“All we've got left,” he says flatly. “You wanna go hunting today or look for more food?”

“I hate hunting,” Gerard says. “I get it’s less risky and all but I just… ugh.”

Their last venture at hunting broke him down to tears. They'd been lucky. Really, really lucky to find a deer. But seeing the blood on the fine-featured doe’s face stripped away his resolve. Looking into its glassy lifeless eyes, all he'd been able to think was that ultimately he was no better than the hungry zombies the better portion of humanity became, killing for a hunger that never quite goes away. He can't do that again; not for a long time, at least.

“Yeah,” Mikey signs. “Scavenging it is. We’ll go in a couple hours?”

“Sounds about right,” Gerard says, working a piece of jerky between his teeth.

He’s viciously hungry, enough that his insides feel sour and put a nasty taste at the back of his throat. When he finishes chewing the remainder of it he pulls items out of his backpack; a toothbrush, water bottle, toothpaste, deodorant, and a battery powered razor. Things he’s thankful Mikey thought to stock up on before they became hard to acquire. Gerard has the struggles categorized in his mind from the maximal to minimal. Hygiene falls prominently under slot number three for the most difficult aspect of his life.

He’s painstakingly sparing with the water and toothpaste. Resources have to be rationed out because one day there simply won’t be anymore. It’s like that feeling when you’re stretching out your paycheck thinking “man if I had just saved that five dollars…”, only worse because it’s more well-being at stake more than just your comfort. Comfort is a rarity.

As hard as life is, all he can do is survive as long as he can, and pray for a cure. Well, not specifically pray, because he lost faith. A world where this could happen is godless and forgotten. Humanity is a wasteland now. He doesn’t have much hope left; just a short mental list of reasons he has to survive, beginning with his brother.

The scientists on the news swore up and down they’d discover a cure, promising harder and harder each day. The more promises they made, the less confidence they inspired. Three years passed brutally and not a single word was fulfilled. Forget a cure, the containment they assured everyone so hard of broke down. One armed official gets bitten, panics, and the moment you open your eyes the world is infected. Winds of change swept through to bring known society crumbling at their feet.

Time passes in an odd, intangible fashion. The flowing river never changes; the snow falling from the sky comes softly. The world at large seems to have slowed down tremendously without the welcome distractions and pressures of society at large.

His jaw throbs with a dull sting; a consequence of clenching his teeth too much. He works his toothbrush throughout his mouth, the sickly sweet taste of mint toothpaste making him queasy. Still, it beats the hell out of the taste of his own morning breath. By some miracle the watch on his wrist still keeps time, though it amounts to nothing. The hour doesn’t matter. There’s only hours of day and of night. Light and dark; unsafe and even more unsafe.

He hurries through trying to keep up with as much of his hygiene as possible, packs his sleeping bag into a tight ball, and tucks all of his belongings into his backpack. Mikey ushers him to move faster because they can’t risk being caught on the city streets after dark. He nods his head and works faster to pack their camp away into the two bags they possess. They’ll come back—most likely, anyway—but they can't afford to leave anything when they go. Anything stolen isn’t something they’ll get back. In the New York temperatures they need their sleeping bags if they expect to survive.

The path back to dry ground is dodgy, inching their bodies down to the base of the cement foundation and leaping the few feet to shore. Mikey seems to do it effortlessly, hurling his own lanky form across the water to the shore, planting his feet solidly upon landing. Gerard hasn’t gotten the hang on it but instead fumbles his arms as he lurches to jump. He falters on landing and groans as he realizes his left shoe is planted firmly in the water.

“Ugh, I got water in my sock. Shit’s cold.”

“Smooth,” Mikey teases with a smirk.

“Fuck you too,” he mutters, shaking his leg in an awkward attempt to get some of the frigid water out of his soggy shoe.

The snow crunches softly beneath their feet in whispers of peace. Gerard’s sock squelches in his shoe and it makes him gag a bit. “Fantastic,” he grumbles to himself. The chilled, wet discomfort takes up his thoughts with each step. It ensues in the worst pattern of step-squish, step-squish, step-squish.

He tries to preoccupy his mind with something, anything, else. He knows it’s winter, he knows it’s eleven in the morning, but he doesn’t know what day it is. Judging by the snow and the temperatures it’s either December or January. December, he decides. They aren’t that far into winter.

“Let’s do this,” Mikey says as they begin to approach a city street, entering from what Gerard recognizes as the south end of the mostly desolated urban sprawl.

He pulls his pistol from its place in the back of his jeans and grips the handle solidly to cock it. Mikey has already done the same. The weapon feels as unfamiliar in his hands as ever. Nonetheless, he steadies himself and clutches it close to his side, prepared. The infected don’t like to come out during the day due to a strange aversion to bright light. Still, they have come across the occasional three or four wandering in the daylight before.

It isn’t the infected they worry about so much when they’re making runs; it’s the survivors. People driven to the very worst human nature can offer. The ones who will murder, steal, and anything else they have to just to keep living. He can’t say he doesn’t understand, he does. He just fights to hold to his humanity. He refuses to let it go even if it does end up costing him his life one day. Better to die a human than live as a monster.

They prowl through the city streets on quiet feet. They turn corners and enter buildings with open eyes and loaded guns. They poke through stores and homes that have already been picked dry, finding nothing for hours. Gerard mostly tries not to think of the people that lived in these houses before all of this happened.

“Next house, gotta move faster,” Mikey whispers.

Gerard just gives a nod and follows at his heels, surveying the next house. Inside this one they find a jar of coconut oil almost full to the brim, a can of pre-cooked pasta, and a fresh box of batteries. It’s a lucky day.

The next house also has fortunate findings along with the immediate stench of death; even more pungent. It fills Gerard’s nose and makes him stifle the urge to vomit, drawing his scarf tighter around his face. His stomach is sour and his head fills with horror as he notes the particular feeling of a body brushing his shoulder. He turns in panic to see a bloated figure hanging from a ceiling rafter by a filthy bedsheet. The face is pale, the eyes are still open but clouded and murky, dried saliva stains the lips, and the fingers are engorged with blood.

“Oh… fu-fuck…” he sobs.

The world goes black and he feels the floor beneath his knees. He weeps, muffling the sound of his own abject horror into his scarf. He has a momentary thought that against all odds the scarf still smells like the safe little apartment he’d had before; like cigarettes and coffee and home. Mikey’s arms wrap around his waist and back; his younger brother gives little soothing whispers before getting him to his feet. “He’s found his peace now, Gerard,” he whispers in his own tone of sadness. Gerard nods the tiniest bit and presses his head into Mikey’s shoulder to gain his composure.

“Go guard the door,” his brother says softly. “I’ll get what’s here.”

He nods, glancing back at the scrawled note beneath his feet. “I’m surrendering. Take what you need here.” He wipes his face, turns away, and doesn’t look again.

Mikey returns and says plainly, “Got a knife, peanut butter, canned chicken, Twinkies, and two boxes of crackers.”

Gerard nods softly. His head still spins with the adrenaline and whirlwind of thoughts. The worst is thinking that in a way, he envies the man hanging from the rafter. Whoever he doesn’t have to be here anymore. No more running and fighting. No more nights of shaking hands and clenched teeth in knowing that everyone you used to love is either dead or walking the streets as a corpse. Just peace, he supposes.

He’s flung far from his line of thoughts as Mikey smacks his shoulder. He hisses quietly. “Ow—what…?”

“Stop thinking it,” he says plainly.

Gerard doesn’t argue or ask questions. He just nods. His brother knows him too well. This is a problem he had before the world turned into a waking nightmare.   
  
In the silence he leans on the younger man’s shoulder for warmth and comfort. His staying alive is to protect his brother, even though it often feels that their relationship works the other way around.

They move on through the city streets in silence, communicating by pre-established hand signals. Mikey begins to climb a fire exit toward an upper apartment. He weighs less and he’s built lankier, so the movements appear more natural as he works his way up the ladder. Gerard’s backpack thumps in a soft rhythm against his shoulder as he works his way up the ladder.

Mikey turns back in horror and shakes his head. He makes a panicked motion of “go” and Gerard knows exactly what is inside that apartment. His heart rises to his throat. They could have made it, they really could have, but Mikey’s shoe catches the edge of the grate in a loud clatter. The younger man’s face goes white as he realizes what is coming. Gerard makes an automatic, trained motion to pull his knife from its place. The rule was, no guns unless you have no choice. The noise would only draw more zombies and possibly even other desperate survivors looking for a fight.

They come quickly, three or four of them. He forces himself not to look at their decaying faces. “Shit!” Mikey says in a whisper-scream as he draws his own knife from his boot. Gerard operates nearly by muscle memory, rehearsing his knowledge in his head. One quick stab to the head will do it. Don’t get bitten, don’t get scratched. The knife sinks in through a zombie’s eye with a sickly wet sound and he pulls it back dripping with dark red blood. The creature falls limply to the ground below. Mikey drives his own knife directly through the skull of one. The crunching noise is going to stay in both of their heads for a long time. Blood splatters on Gerard’s shirt and he wrinkles his nose in disgust.

The last one, a large living corpse of a man, wraps its hand around Mikey’s forearm and leans its head forward, mouth dripping foamy saliva. Gerard reacts quickly, driving his knife into the back of the skull. The blood is nearly black from decay. His knife sticks stubbornly in the bone as the thing dies. He has to withdraw it with a strong jerk, flinging more reeking blood on his sleeves. He motions his hand for Mikey to start down the ladder. The younger brother gives back a fearful nod. The whites of his eyes are hugely visible as he moves down in leftover panic.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gerard says desperately, already heading back toward the river in a half-sprint beside his brother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this isn’t too melodramatic


End file.
